


Don't Remember to Forget

by helwolves



Category: The Island (2005)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Timeline Fuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-16
Updated: 2005-08-16
Packaged: 2018-01-21 14:52:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1554290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helwolves/pseuds/helwolves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lincoln Six Echo is having strange dreams. Dr. Merrick always knows what to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Remember to Forget

_— and Lincoln’s palms are flat against the desk, his fingers clenching, and Merrick is behind him, pressing down on him, pressing_ into _him, and Lincoln is trapped, trapped and laughing and breathless, and they’re moving, Merrick is pounding against him, and on the desk the pictures flash — ISLAND JORDAN WATER METAL APPLE FLOATING FALLING FIRE CRASH — faster and faster until it’s like an explosion inside him, like he’s dying, like nothing he’s ever felt before —_

*

Lincoln Six Echo woke up gasping. Again. The sunlight streaming into his room was impossibly blue. He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes, a few moments of lovely red nothing. Nightmares. He hated nightmares. Sometimes he thought he must be the only person to have them. And that wasn’t fair. The monitor on the wall flashed a warning — disruptive REM pattern. Careful, Six Echo. Don’t want to be dragged in for being abnormal.

Get up, go down, on with the day. Can’t let them know. Wonder what’s for breakfast.

*

_— and Merrick’s hand is on him, in his pants, touching him, with a fist so tight and twisting that it almost hurts, but Lincoln throws his head back and laughs and he loves it, finally letting his elbows unlock, collapsing against the desk so his cheek hits the cold plastic, every inch of himself thrumming with pleasure, and “oh,” he says, his own voice sounding all wrong somehow, “fucking hell, Merrick, you have a glorious cock, don’t you, I fucking knew you would —”_

*

“What’s a cock?” said Lincoln, swirling his tongue absently around the thing — the _toot-see-pop_  — that McCord had given him.

The other man choked. “What? Lincoln, where did you — Never mind,” he said, wiping the liquid that had spilled down his chin, shaking his head. “It’s a chicken. You know what a chicken is, right?”

Lincoln’s eyes narrowed. “No, I — I think it’s something else. Something, umm...” He glanced at the crotch of McCord’s pants meaningfully.

McCord took a long swallow of his strange drink. “All right, look. Yeah. It’s another word for your — your _little guy_.” He gestured downward. Lincoln nodded, satisfied. “But you shouldn’t go around saying things like that, okay? Who taught you that word?”

“I ... overheard it,” said Lincoln, frowning. He sucked, filling his mouth with the taste of bright red and sugar. That was nice. He never really knew what red tasted like.

“Censors,” said McCord, like he was spitting out something rotten. “Well,” he sighed, rubbing his stubbled chin, “well, you just keep your mouth shut. Gonna get guys like us in trouble, you keep coming up with stuff like that.” He glanced at the metal thing on his wrist. “Gettin’ late. You better get back, kid.”

“Okay,” said Lincoln. He looked thoughtfully at the wet toot-see-pop in his hand, then held it out to McCord. “Thanks again,” he said, grinning.

“Ah, no, no, you can hold on to that.” McCord laughed, shaking his head. “Just keep it secret, will ya?”

*

_— and Lincoln is on his knees, on the ground, his fingernails sharp and digging into the skin of Merrick’s hips, bare skin, pants lowered, and Lincoln’s lips are wet, slippery wet, and stretched wide by Merrick’s cock as he’s moaning around the thick flesh, feeling the weight against his tongue, and Merrick’s hips snap, and Lincoln should gag but he doesn’t, he’s just thinking, “fuck, you better fuck me soon, you fucking selfish cunt, let’s go,” until Merrick tugs at his hair —_

*

“You all right, Lincoln?” asked Lima One Alpha, her brows knit delicately with concern. “You look tired.”

“I’m _fine_. Really. Haven’t been sleeping well, that’s all.” Lincoln swerved to avoid a collision with an irritated-looking guard and the potential embarrassment of sprawling across the floor with his dinner tray in hand.

“I told him he should go see Dr. Merrick about it, but he’s so stubborn.” Jordan Two Delta dug her elbow into Lincoln’s ribs sharply. Her tongue peeked out when she laughed. “Isn’t that right?”

He yelped and rubbed at his side, and he smiled, feeling it tug at the corners of his eyes.

*

_— and Lincoln laughs, swinging himself easily to perch on the edge of Merrick’s desk, where images dance and flicker and he isn’t looking because that makes his head hurt, and while Lincoln watches Merrick rummage for something in a cabinet he unfastens his own fly and reaches his hand inside, gripping himself, rubbing, roughly, and he says, “Hurry the fuck up, would you,” and Merrick laughs and tosses a little package that Lincoln snatches out of the air, licking his lips —_

*

“Lincoln Six Echo,” said Dr. Merrick, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes — ice blue and obscured behind that rimless glass. “And how are we feeling today?”

Lincoln shifted in his chair. “I’m fine.”

Leaning forward, Dr. Merrick drew a stylus across the surface of his desk, his eyes flickering over the documents that came up. “Come, you can talk to me. I want to help you, Lincoln.” He smiled again, looking kinder somehow. “Your sleep monitoring has shown some worrisome results. Are you sure there isn’t —”

“Nightmares,” Lincoln spat. Behind Dr. Merrick, people in lab coats and black suits and white uniforms passed, alone with data pads or in groups of two or three, talking silently, unseeing. “I’ve been — could you turn that off? The window. It’s — I don’t —”

Lincoln’s head hurt suddenly. He didn’t like the way Dr. Merrick was rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb and frowning.

“The window? Of course, Lincoln,” said the doctor, tapping his stylus.

The transparent wall fogged over until in its place was nothing but a dull, grey pattern. Lincoln stared at it. People were still back there. He just couldn’t see them anymore, and they never could see him, but they were still _there_.

“Now, Lincoln —”

Suddenly leaping to his feet, Lincoln snarled, “Stop saying my name!”

Dr. Merrick fixed him with a level gaze. “You’re far too agitated,” he said. “It ... concerns me.” He stood up and quickly disappeared through a door at the far end of his office. “Take these —” he said, returning with a small bottle that rattled when he handed it to Lincoln. “And I want to see you again in the morning.”

Lincoln stared at his sneakers, his fist clenched around the bottle. “Yes, sir.”

*

_— and Merrick slides his hands down Lincoln’s back, past his waistband, squeezing, and Lincoln’s groan is lost between their locked mouths, their tangled tongues, and Merrick whispers roughly, “What do you want?” with his lips and teeth suddenly at Lincoln’s throat, and Lincoln tosses his head back, laughs and says, “I want you to fuck me over that great, shiny desk of yours,” and he slips one hand between them, pressing his palm against the front of Merrick’s pants, “And leave that window on,” he adds, grinning wickedly, and Merrick shoves him backwards, hard, and says, “Wait here —”_

*

The sky was blindingly blue through the outer walls of his office. Just like every other morning. Dr. Merrick paced back and forth behind Lincoln’s chair, his shoes creaking against the tiles. “Now,” he said, finally, “about those nightmares.”

Lincoln closed his eyes. His head swam, like sleep still lingered with him.

“It’s just — strange things.” _Your hands on me. Your tongue in my mouth. Your cock moving inside me._ “I hardly even remember them after,” he added in a rushed breath. “But I don’t — it’s all wrong. Proximity —” His hands gripped the arms of his chair.

Lincoln glanced over his shoulder. Dr. Merrick was watching him warily. “What are you doing in your nightmares, Lincoln?”

“I was touching...” Lincoln licked his lips. “Touching myself.” His fingers drifted to his thighs, clenching at the fabric.

“I understand.” Dr. Merrick paused behind Lincoln’s chair. “Show me,” he said, bringing his hands to rest on Lincoln’s shoulders.

Lincoln swallowed. His mouth felt too dry. “Sir?”

“You heard me,” said Dr. Merrick. “I want to know exactly what happens in these dreams.” His voice was steady, a gentle rumble that made Lincoln’s insides feel like he’d just swallowed a whole mouthful of McCord’s special drink.

Lincoln slid his hand up, palming himself through his pants. He sighed. The stretchy white material was entirely too tight — he hadn’t ever noticed that before. Dr. Merrick said nothing. He slid down in his chair, spreading his legs wider. His fingers closed tighter, slipping back and forth, and a little moan escaped his throat.

“Is that all?”

Lincoln shook his head. His eyes were closed but he could feel Dr. Merrick’s hands on his shoulders, squeezing, thumbs rubbing against Lincoln’s neck reassuringly even as Lincoln rubbed at himself. Lincoln let his head fall to one side, to press his face against Dr. Merrick’s wrist. He heard Dr. Merrick make a rough sound, felt him moving lower behind Lincoln’s chair.

“Go on, then.”

That rumbling voice was closer suddenly, against Lincoln’s ear. He reached up with his opposite hand to unfasten his pants, shoved the fabric away, and curled his fingers around himself. He opened his eyes to see Dr. Merrick, so close, his face severe, his eyes cold though his cheeks were flushed — but Lincoln was too far gone to be wary. To care about anything at all beyond the suddenly overwhelming sensation of skin on skin.

And then Merrick slid his hand from Lincoln’s shoulder, down his flexing forearm, to cover Lincoln’s hand with his own, replacing Lincoln’s fingers. Lincoln arched in his chair and moaned shamelessly as he pushed his cock into Merrick’s clenched fist.

“And how does that feel?” Merrick whispered roughly against his neck, slipping his other arm around Lincoln’s chest to steady him while his hips bucked again and again.

“Good,” Lincoln gasped, his voice slurred with pleasure. “S’really _fucking_ good...”

*

_— and Lincoln asks “Excuse me, Dr. Merrick?” and the man turns, polishing his rimless glasses on the front of his dark suit jacket, “Is it possible to schedule an appointment? I’ve a few more questions, you see...” he continues, smiling, tossing a bright green apple from hand to hand, and Merrick says something about a presentation downstairs, but Lincoln just grins and bites into his apple and says, “But my questions, they’re rather ... personal ...” and Merrick looks up, smirks, “Perhaps you’d like to speak to my secretary, Mr. Lincoln,” to which Lincoln replies, “No, I’d really rather speak with you. And please,” he adds, tongue darting out to catch the sweet juice that’s dripped at the corner of his mouth, “call me Tom.”_

*

Lincoln Six Echo woke up with a splitting headache. He didn’t think those pills that Dr. Merrick gave him were working right. The nightmares hadn’t gone away. They were still there, in the night. The monitor over his bed said so, too. But he couldn’t remember.

He rolled over, pulled the blanket up over his head to block out the sunlight. Another bright blue sky. He tried, again, to remember the things in his dream. The moments slipped away like sand dropped into crashing waves. And he felt like he was forgetting other things, too. Forgetting things and remembering things — things that happened or didn’t happen. Important things.

The monitor flashed instructions in calming green letters. Please report. Tranquility center. Wellness evaluation. _Fuck._

And there, again. Lincoln rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His head hurt. He’d ask the doctor. Dr. Merrick always knew what to do.


End file.
